Chaotic Obsession
by Kayos Terum
Summary: Their love remains, amidst a wasteland... How can you cope with something that's bigger than you all? Kane/Lita, and others. Chapter 4 up.
1. Realisation

**Disclaimer: I own nothing here except for the story and the content itself. All wrestlers and other related media is not owned or licensed by me, and in no way is the content here meant to reflect the individual wrestlers themselves, but rather the characters they portray.**

**Credit: This story was inspired by insomnia and the fantasies of an angsty teenager with too much freetime and an overly-active imagination. May be used with permission and credit.**

**Summary: He still loves her with an all-consuming passion; yet he cannot get over her betrayal, or the guilt that stems from the fact that he caused it.**

**Characters: Kane/Lita, may also include Taker, Edge, and others.**

**Warning: This story includes extreme sexual and violent themes and is not appropriate for younger readers. Please use discretion, althogh more adult themes come in later chapters.**

**This Chapter: This is a sort of prologue, giving background and depth to the story. More is to come.**

The roar was deafening.

After all of these years he had managed to tune it out, become as apathetic towards the appeal of the fans as the other wrestlers were enamored by it.

His mind was filled with other things. He had gone about fighting his matches in an almost autonomous state, his mind brimming with thoughts of what he regarded as more important matters. (The fighting, the urges, the wantonness, fleeting moments of joy.) But always he was brought back to the pain. The inescapable pain.

He found after many years that separating himself from his matches was best. It was those years during which he became emotionally invested in any way during his job, (yes, he must learn to view it now only as a job, despite the fact that after allowing himself to lose so much else it was become his everything) that pain was most profound. Those years with his brother, relationships, all attempts at friendship, all had ended terribly when he invested himself.

He decided, if only for his own good, that he must become completely apathetic to avoid any and all forms of torture that came from this wretched attachment, this "love." And so came about the irony that while attempting to distance himself from his work, or rather, his history, that he became consumed by it.

Every day was spent furthering his career. Feverishly he worked to climb the ranks, working, pushing, striving ever towards perfection in the only are of his life he could achieve. Perfection in his body, working out obsessively to the point of exhaustion. Perfection in his technique, training to a point others found unhealthy, not heeding their admonitions of "rest" and "relaxation." Perfection over his opponents, mental advantage. And so he would torture them in numerous ways.

Family, friends, their own bodies, lives, careers, not caring whom eh hurt so long as it brought him ever closer to perfection.

Others, officials, never stopped him unless he carried to too far, knowing that such things meant good ratings and good ratings meant good money, money that could be used to pay off wary government bodies or officers who felt he might be going to far.

He learned to take great pleasure in these excursions, in his own sick twisted way following others' advice of finding an outlet.

Forsooth he found many outlets of pleasure, taking women and other lavish luxuries as he pleased.

Quietly, of course.

Women were easy to come by, for one of his stature, (physically and fiscally, as well as one of his supposed ("girth.") He chose his women sparingly, using them in whatever disgusting way he so desired, knowing they would always agree and conform, or suffer thereof. He believed, or rather he knew, that many females were as damaged as he was inside, and thus attracted to normally repulsive means, Such women secretly disgusted him, and he dealt with them justly by giving to them what they outwardly wished, begged for, but soon came to regret. Bleeding, crying, knowing now the error of their ways as they crawled off on tired, broken, bloody limbs to a symphony of his laughter. That is, those that could crawl away at all.

There was only one that he knew that had ever refused such treatment knowing that she deserved better. And, indeed, he would never, could never (and in fact, was disgusted by the thought of) give her such a treatment ,as she was of a certain breed.; a strong, beautiful woman, that he had never seen or could have even fathomed before. He was captivated by the very first sight of her, grew to yearn for her, need her.

Just when he finally achieve having her, all he had ever dreamt of, she tore it away with a thousand steely knives carving his heart into a ragged bloody mess left upon the floor, and subsequently spat on.  
He shuddered now, even thinking of such things, and thus learned to shy away from such thoughts in the daytime, being haunted only at night, in his dreams, where he could not escape

.  
In his dreams he relived a million miseries, a million nightmares. Thy were not felt so because they were garish memories, but rather beautiful ones.

Oh yes, what haunted him was not the thought of pain, a norm he had come to accept as both an inevitability as well as a handy weapon, but rather the old feelings dug back up, feelings he could no longer escape in the dead of night.

He was tortured by the memories of their few fleeting moments of happiness together. Oh, how she had despised him, refuting his every touch. He treated her with a distance and cruelty spawn only out of his need to be with her, refusing to let her know his true feelings, sensing them unrequited.

The night she had gotten out of the hospital after their son had died, she had finally released the veil. She cried uncontrollably and openly, no longer caring for anything, wishing to feel anything. He clamored to help her, holding her, comforting her, speaking to her soft words and as he always did, tracing his finger along her smooth skin, yearning for her smell, her touch, her taste, her love.

The thing that killed him the most was that one fleeting moment, for years in secret which he had wished, she yielded. To his touch, she was responsive, taking comfort in his warmth. Tighter he held her, eyes shut firmly to prevent tears of disbelief from escaping, tears that this moment would come only now, after so much else was lost.

Softly she sighed, releasing with it the grief of the hatred which she had felt for him for so long.

Hatred, of which he did not know. Hatred that was truly only resentment, resentment that he had her prisoner. Not physically, but he captivated her, for years he had and the feeling grew so deep she had to repress them, knowing that he could never love one so undeserving and unworthy as her.

She turned to face him, still caught in his embrace, and for on moment, their eyes met.

That moment would forever haunt him as the one moment that he saw pure, unadulterated moment in her eyes. Desire as strong as that which he felt himself.

So unable to cope with the thought of her deeming him worthy, he did something which would cause him to wake up in the night, screaming ,crying, refusing to wipe his tears for fear of acknowledging their presence and thus acknowledging the horror of what he had done;

He left.

He merely walked out, leaving her in her moment of greatest need, the moment which he had promised her he would protect her, be her savior, promised her late at night when he held her, talking to an unreceptive, cold body of the ways in which he loved her and would always protect her.

Never had he told or expressed such things to anyone. And now with a cold uncaring look upon his face as he left he saw the horror what he had done dawning in her eyes, eyes which moments before had mirrored the feeling embedded in his soul, so stunned by disbelief that the one moment she had finally given in, he had betrayed her.

As he shut the door, he couldn't contain his ears as he heard her screaming. Fully he understood the terror and pain that she felt all to familiar to him.

And yet still, he walked.

The trust was never regained or even acknowledged.

It shocked him how receptive she was in public, knowing it only a sham, their love a dead pauper being paraded in king's clothes for the amusement of the world.

Her betrayal did not surprise him, but rather finally bring to light the realization that what could have been so great he had destroyed.

He dealt her justice nonetheless, yet every week he saw her, kissing him with passion he could only dream of, and saw that same passion reflected back in his eyes.

And this is what haunted him. What slowly consumed, and destroyed him, eating up his very soul.

Making his mind slowly rot, as his intellect only increases with age, making all forms of torture and pain inflicted upon other humans ever more intricate, ever more advanced than before. His need to hurt others, to destroy, to ravage, consumed, before the realization of what he had done finally catches up to his mind, in a fervent stage of denial.

And yet still, he yearned.

**Next Chapter: Her perspective.**

**Please read and review! I cannot subsist without you.**


	2. Exasperation

**Thank you for the reviews...and I apologize for the long time it took me to publish this chapter.**

**In this chapter: This is from Lita's point of view. While it is not quite in the same format, and it does not fully start the story, it does help set it up from her point of view.**

**Note: I apologize for how repetitive this chapter is, preferrably in the introduction the first view paragraphs. I wrote it over a month or two, and not all at once, so the thoughts overlap.**

**Thank you to all those who helped this be possible, even though it's only a very short addition.**

**And thank you to my beta reader...even though she hasn't actually read this yet, lol.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Lita, but man if I did the things that I would do to that fiery readhead...**

She merely glanced in the mirror, ever more afraid of her own reflection. In it was reflected not merely the image of her own startlingly beautiful features, features which mesmerized others (which mesmerized him-no! She must quit thinking of him...) but instead it reflected her soul; through her eyes. Her mesmerizing eyes.  
Her hair slipped out from in front of her face in a turn of her head and try as she might, she caught her own image in her peripheral. She couldn't help herself. She glanced. And, just like all the others, she was mesmerized.

She stared deeply at her dark hazel eyes, eyes turned a bright green color from the tears now staining her cheeks, tears she was still unaware of being preoccupied.

She was tortured, caught betwixt agony and ecstasy, as she stared ahead, her ind unable to encompass the endless blackness held there, the endless yawning chasm fated between Heaven and Hell.

She stared into the Abyss.

She stared into her soul.

Lita was neither sure when it had begun, nor what had caused it.

She only that for some reason, at some point in recent history, (or longer, unbeknownst to her), had begun the slow degradation of her mind.

She had still maintained her quick wit, her striking intelligence, and her unparalleled ring psychology; however she knew something must be off, and credited it either as early menopause, mental illness, or late-striking severe mental retardation.

What other reason, she pondered, could bring about these new, uninhibited thoughts of her ex-husband?

Nearly two years had passed since she had even spoken to him, avoiding him at any cost.

It was not merely out of hatred for all the pain that he had previously caused her, but out of fear of all of the old feelings once again dug up.

The passion he inspired within a mere glance, his hot breath tickling her neck, his fingers lighting her skin ablaze, sending shockwaves down her spine to deep in her abdomen, alighting all the nerve endings, passion returning back in a flaming wheel of ecstasy to be reflected in her eyes.

What he mistook for hatred was merely passion.

Passion buried so deep inside of her for so long it slowly became entwined with her soul, so much though that after all these years that it was still festering inside her she could hardly distinguish it from herself in the moments when its presence was suspected, such as in a brilliant flash of light or otherwise.

That is why she could remain oblivious so long to the feelings, not acknowledging it even now, discrediting it to nostalgia, loss, ponderings of her own life.

But there was an incident that no longer allowed to live in such a denial.

Once, in a dream.

She often slept troubled, as she had her whole life.

This only exacerbated so by the blanket hog, over-snorer and overly-sexually-active creature that was her current fiancee.

On one of the rare occasions when they were booked on different shows, she got her own hotel room and a night of temporary reprieve, a chance at rest and relaxation.

Just around twelve, after a rather hardy training session and a warm, luxurious shower, she finally curled into the warm bed, looking forward to the peaceful nirvana of sleep that was to come.

Not an hour's mark after her head hit the pillow, she almost immediately entering into a light, needed slumber, she was awakened by one of the most frightening night-terrors she had ever experienced.

It was hardly a nightmare. No, anything but.

She had a dream of passion; but the object of her mental manifestations was not her loving fiancee, or even her first lost love, Matt, whom she would still reminisce about on occasion; no, it was that Devil, that Tempter, that horrid being she was forced to call an ex-husband.

But this is not what frightened her; after all she had gone several weeks without gratification from anyone other than her own self, she was with a selfish lover and she missed the gentleness juxtaposed with the rough, loving brutality that only her ex-husband knew how to bring, it was only natural to have fantasies of him.  
What frightened her was the words which had so delicately escaped her lips, barely a whisper except to the closest spirit drifting about; the blood-curling scream that ripped from her lungs, surging forth into the night air after she realized the gentle words that she had spoken, now lost in the wind.

_I love you, Kane._


	3. Focalization

**A/N Alright, guys. Little change of plans. Because I took so long to update this, with the major changing of storylines, I'm going to have to skip ahead a few months in the figurative plot to make my story work. Don't worry, I'll explain it all. With Kane losing his title, I needed to completely change everything around. I fought with deciding whether or not to delete the last chapter and starting fresh from there. I decided instead to take it as a challenge and work forward from there. The story makes a very big change from here on out, I do so hope you'll enjoy it.**

**And my apologies for my slow timing in updating, it's been a very busy few months, including me being on vacation for two months and having little access to a computer for the first few. I can't say that with me moving and going to a new school the updates won't be few and far between, but I've made the decision that they'll be there. I hope ya'll are there with me.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of these fine performers, nor the characters that they portray. Neither do I own the band Chiodos, although I do think that they a darn fine group.**

Kane walked down the hall, softly smirking to himself. He had had a very interesting few months, after all. He was excited at the prospect of moving back to WWE'S flagship show, only to lose the title that he was so proud to gain, shortly thereafter. To top it all off, that harlot, that temptress, that apple of his eye (NO! QUIT THINKING LIKE THAT!) Lita was signed to the same show to which he was drafted.

He felt somewhat relieved when she had injured herself shortly after being signed, spraining and twisting her ankle in a match with Mickie James, a move that was by no means fatal but would put her out of contention for several months.

However…he couldn't help but feel a small twinge deep in gut that made him cringe every time he thought too long about it. His brain reminded him that this was called either guilt, or empathy.

He politely reminded his brain to fuck off, as he did most other nosy little voices that would decide to intrude when they were not wanted.

But the damage was done; although he constantly tried to remind himself that he hated her, even though he knew it was only because of newfound longing, his pain and suffering by her absence, sparked so much stronger by her sudden reappearance in one of his greater times of need, caused him to lash out in unspeakable ways.

He had a hunger.

Usually, he satisfied this hunger with women, in many various ways, both disgusting and oddly beautiful to his way. Ah, the blood could write a thousand stories, the screams could inspire a thousand symphonies.

While these gratuitous, yet thankfully not murdersome, exploits were few and far between, he felt a stronger urge driving him.

He felt an urge that he had not felt for a great while, an urge that had only struck him on several occasions throughout his life.

An urge that grew, steadily, unknowingly, until it became such an insurmountable presence that not to satisfy it would rip apart the very center of his being, destroying him in the process. He had had a similar urge with Lita, but that was an urge so great and beautiful that juxtaposed next to the hankering for destruction he now felt it was like looking at two diametrically opposed fields of a spectrum, the very chasm betwixt heaven and hell.

He had not felt this way since he was unmasked, another event that had "unleashed the monster", and he felt the compulsion to do horrible things, namely to Shane McMahon and his family. In weaker doses he had found the need present with others; Rob Van Dam, etc.

When he was younger he was a tempest, ruled unbegrudgingly by his emotions, serving his every whim and desire, a perpetual flame under his ass, driving him to hurt to maim, to torture. This had begun from a very young age…It wavered in and out, but the only one who could ever truly satisfy it in a way that allowed him both to exercise and to conquer it was…_No!_ he told himself. _Quit thinking of her! You've got everything you want at the moment!_

He sighed deeply at his momentary lapse in judgement…they were becoming a bit more common nowadays…but he had his treat to help coax them back into their senility, as he hoped they would die off altogether.

His pains gradually dimmed and his thoughts waxed back to his latest indulgence…

He knew that no normal circumstance would allow him to satisfy his craving…it was a very particular craving…One that was started by a mere chance whilst passing in the hall…

FLASHBACK

Kane walked gingerly down the hall, savoring the few moments of peace and inner quietude he always experienced post-victory, a haunting tune stuck in his head, (in this case, Lexington by Chiodos is what had struck his fancy...always a favorite of…_hers…_although he chose not to remember that subconsciously) others scurrying out of the way in their usual frightened manner.

He was passing somewhat out of the shadows into the corners of the arena inhabited by other living beings, (that is, those who didn't make their homes throughout the many tunnels and passageways, clamoring desperately throughout the darkness, never to find reprieve from their squalid existence...although Kane would argue humans did the same thing) when he stopped dead in his tracks, having heard a voice that peaked both his interest and his fury. It was Rey Mysterio, saying words to some unknown party whilst walking out of the trainer's office.

"Yeah, but the best part is when Dominic helped his little sister with it. We were so proud…"

Kane's hand shot against the wall to prevent his body from falling over; his body was wracked with the convulsing of labored breathing. Any of the anger that usually inhabited his being he had felt moments before was merely irksome when compared to the pure seething rage he felt at this moment.

What truly angered Kane, at the heart of the matter, was not his former opponent's lack of concern over his physical well-being, or the fact that he had happened to chance across Kane at a moment when he was blocked off from outward existence, one of his few moments of peace, but rather, the subject matter of his conversation.

The inner demons, passing silently through the passageways of his inner mind, began their devilish work by reframing his evil urges to center on a new focus; every strand that had been focused on outward now focused itself on this man.

Kane's bottom lip curved up gently into a grin.

For, in this small man, was represented all that reprehensible to Kane's eye; virtue, family…love.

All that had been taken from him was received in this man without a backward glance.

Kane no longer shook. He had a new focus, a new purpose.

As his traditional parting words floated down the hall, nonchalantly, forgotten at their utterance, Rey made the somewhat fatal mistake of stepping into the shadows, the place where Kane and the demons in his mind had so chosen to make their abode.

With hardly a thud, Mysterio fell, coerced ever so gently by Kane's awaiting arms into the darkness.

There was silence, both in the outer realm and in Kane's ever troubled head. Finally, he had found an outlet for peace.

END FLASHBACK

**Maybe now you'll begin to understand why Kane does the things he does… Don't worry…this has a good plotline and hopefully you all will enjoy it, my luvvies. Lita makes her much-awaited re-appearance next chapter. Warning: the themes in this story take a turn for the worst from this point on, I'm afraid. No more PG-13. I promise I'll try to let you enjoy the ride as much as I do…please leave me some love and advice.**

**See the button? It won't click itself, luverlies. :D**


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